


in a week

by charmedatmidnight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Warden (Dragon Age) is Dead, Zevran is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22023421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmedatmidnight/pseuds/charmedatmidnight
Summary: Warden Tabris sacrificed herself for the greater good. Zevran has decided to pay a visit to her statue in Redcliffe before departing for Antiva.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Kudos: 37





	in a week

**Author's Note:**

> written for my partner and their female warden tabris <3

_”The Hero of Ferelden fought and killed the Archdemon, dying in the ultimate sacrifice to save Ferelden.”_

The statue looked nothing like her.

It was almost comical, gazing up at the thing and realizing it wasn’t even a statue of _her_. No, the Griffon’s unblinking eyes stared straightforward, a lifeless stone monument made so impersonal and _generic_. It was a laugh to think the King had allowed the thing in the first place, given how little the thing did to actually honor the woman who had given her life for his country. True, there was likely a more personal monument in Denerim, but Shianni wouldn’t let her legacy die so easily.

Not like this.

Stil, Zevran remained seated beneath the Griffon, back resting against the breast of the creature, knee bent up and arm resting atop. Slender fingers held tightly to the neck of the brandy he’d been nursing since darkness had fallen. It was odd, he thought, as his eyes roamed, lazy, over the empty streets of Redcliffe - he didn’t think he’d ever seen the village so quiet, between the undead and the darkspawn attacks. But this, the soft silence that cradled the village, cooing and gently rocking its inhabitants to sleep, was far more unsettling. His gaze drifted to the castle, the candlelight flickering in the windows, and an _ache_ bloomed within his chest.

“It is odd, no?” he said aloud, chasing his words with a swig of brandy. It was not Antivan - no, he couldn’t drink that now _without_ \- but it wasn’t the worst Ferelden had to offer. A puff of air escaped between his lips, followed by another drink of the half-empty bottle. “I almost prefer this place crawling with monsters.”

He glanced up at the Griffon, almost expecting some sort of response. But the stone was still, quiet.

Comical, yes. That was the best way to describe it. The Griffon was a symbol of the Grey Warden’s honor and sacrifice, but it could not capture just _what_ had been sacrificed. No, that was something best left out of the history books - much like, he assumed, her identity as an elf. The Griffon would not reveal that, and instead allow her to fade through the years, to reduce her to nothing more than a Grey Warden, a _hero_.

And that was, maybe, the worst part of it all. That was all she was to them, to the King, apparently. But Zevran could never reduce her to that, to _this_.

“But it is not your fault, my friend, is it?” he asked, tilting his head back to address the beast. “To you, too,” he lifted the bottle with a little salute, “For you did not ask to be made.” Zevran tossed back a sip, before a small smile tugged at his lips. “She would have hated you, you know. No offense. It is not personal.” Another salute, another sip. His throat burned and his chest ached and he felt a little too light-headed and small and-- it had nothing to do with the brandy.

“No, she would have preferred something a bit more...menacing. Intimidating.” He reached for the wildflowers he had picked on his pilgrimage to Redcliffe, adjusting them atop his leather gloves that rested on the slab. “Ah, and she would have _adored_ if they had included her sword. And perhaps her wedding dress.” Zevran smiled, chuckling under his breath as he fiddled with the stems of the flowers. “Yes, she would have wanted that. An elf, in a wedding dress, with a large sword. That, my friend,” he punctuated his words with a glance up at the stone creature, “would have been perfect.”

But _perfect_ , he knew, was only a fantasy, and he knew better than to cling to fantasy. Zevran tilted his head back and finished the brandy, relishing in the warmth that was a welcome distraction, if only for a moment.

His thoughts, however, always found a way to meander back to _her_.

“And that, amor, is why I cannot stay.”

Zevran took a breath and slid forward, legs dangling over the edge of the stone, until his feet hit the ground. He emptied what few drops was left of the brandy onto the ground before the statue, blinking back the sudden fullness in his eyes. He hopped up and turned around to place the empty bottle near the Griffon’s foot. Gingerly, he scooped up the wildflowers and placed them in the bottle.

“Surely you understand,” he said as he arranged them, toying with the colors and their placements until it was good enough for her. “But I must return to Antiva. To the Crows, yes.” A sly smile up at the statue. “Yes, yes, I know, but-- It is what I must do, now. There is...nothing left for me here. Though, truly, I wish there were.” The faces of their friends flashed before him, of Alistair in the castle and Emilia at Vigil’s Keep, but he knew they were not enough to keep him in Ferelden.

“There,” he breathed, stepping back to admire his arrangement the reds and purples of the petals almost - _almost_ \- matching her brilliance. Zevran reached into his pocket, a soft, _”Oh, yes,”_ escaping between parted lips, and produced the small, golden earring. They had retrieved it from her body - _something to remember her by,_ he remembered someone saying - but he hadn’t wanted it back. It had been a gift, had been _hers_ , and he would rather have had her take it to the grave. But, her grave was far, and the earring was here, and the best he could do was to place the stems of the flowers through the middle, securing them together.

“Ah, mi amor,” he said, a tone of melancholy embracing _amor_ , “I must go.” He pulled his gloves on and pressed a kiss to his fingertips, then placed them on the Griffon’s foot. One last kiss for her. “But I will see you when I reach the Maker’s side.”

With a swish of his cloak, Zevran disappeared into the dark of the night.


End file.
